


Flight

by neverqueenkirk



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band), Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:39:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverqueenkirk/pseuds/neverqueenkirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the only year in recorded history that District Two had neither a female nor male tribute volunteer. As always, the Academy had churned out an entire class of teenagers bred to kill, myself included. There was no particular reason that none of us volunteered; perhaps we just weren't brave enough. But it never mattered. Because I ended up trembling on that platform next to a factory boy, with my every shred of confidence left standing apart from me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flight

“Wren Jameson!” leaves the lips of the over-zealous, green-haired Capitol escort. Silence. Silence as my eyes widen and flit back and forth, processing the information. I find my parents, my brothers, and my sister in the crowd standing stock still and paralyzed. They can’t afford to betray their emotions, because after all, it is an honor for a child to be a Tribute. I come back to reality and do exactly as I was taught. I plant on a ferocious façade. My grey eyes turn to stone, my limbs to steel. A grin spreads across my face as I put feet heavy as lead into motion. Finally, I make it to the concrete steps leading up to the platform. The escort offers me congratulations, and I attempt to reply, but the hard-suppressed knot rising in my throat forces me to simply nod. It was all I could do to keep up the act. It’s what feels like hours, days, years that I keep my gaze on a piece of the sky, waiting for the ceremony to be over. Words were said and salutes were made, and my body moved mechanically through the motions. Finally, the boy Tribute and I are ushered back into the Justice Hall. Even then, my mask does not fall.   
I hardly recall saying goodbye to my family. There couldn’t have been much to remember. The goodbyes in Career districts are brief and concise, partly because every family has arrogant faith that their child is mighty enough to come home a Victor and partly because Career children rarely have true families anyway. Such was my case. All of our time was spent training and learning and working; we were hardly what should be called a family. I said goodbye and left with nothing to come back to. My options were to win and become famous and rich with the adoration of the Capitol, or die.   
◊◊◊  
I board the train, find my room, and process through its components: one bed with unnecessarily luxurious linens, a closet presumably full of impractical clothing, a massive psychedelic screen, a bathroom, various lamps and tables. Upon opening the closet, I discover that my presumption was correct. It contains a few flouncy shirts, pairs of silk and linen pants, high heels, and other flamboyant pieces. I make a quick decision to keep on my outfit of leggings, tank top, jacket, and of course my worn in training boots. I lie down on the bed and fall asleep before my mind has any time to start reeling. Seemingly hours later, I hear the piercing voice of our escort calling me to dinner. After a glance in the mirror, I decide to pull my untamed blonde hair into a bun. Satisfied, I open the door and with a deep breath, head down the hall to the dining room.   
“So nice of you to join us, Wren,” says Cato, our mentor and also the Victor of the previous years’ Games. He sits at the head of the table with a cheeky grin across his face and sarcasm in his words. Enobaria, our other mentor, sits prim at the other head of the table and doesn’t so much as acknowledge my entrance. Two other seats contain the smiling green-haired escort, who I discover is named Waldorf, and the Tribute boy. He surveys me with innocent emerald eyes and runs a hand through his unkempt tawny curls. The boy comes to his feet, almost reluctantly, and bows in the traditional way for a common citizen to pay respect to a Career. As usual, the custom makes me uneasy. I follow protocol and introduce myself, “Wren Jameson, Fifth Village Academy, Class Z12, Third Ranking.” The boy replies with embarrassment, “Ash Irwin, Quarry 28.” He was far from a Career, but worked in the stone mines, which means he has significant muscle and power. I let this slide to the back of my mind to remember. We take our seats as the Avoxes serve us. “Thank you,” Ash says as he smiles at the Avox placing beef onto his plate. A laugh escapes Cato’s mouth, which Ash ignores. The rest of the meal passes in relative silence, with the occasional snarky remark from Cato or excited twitter from Waldorf. Nothing much happens between Ash and I besides a few awkward glances. As the meal comes to a close, Cato pipes up, “We’ll be in the Capitol in an hour. Be ready.” This triggers Waldorf. He leaps up, insisting on fixing this and that about our appearances and attitudes. “Stay right here!” he yelps as he plants us in two armchairs facing each other in the living area adjacent to the dining room. Ash studies his hands as I scrutinize him: muscular, athletic, tall, not burly, slender, and frankly quite attractive. I decide it’s time to pry.   
“What did you do at the quarries?” I ask.   
“What does it matter?” he counters.  
Taken aback by the change in character I retort, “Just trying to make conversation-“  
He interrupts with a steady tone, “No, you’re plotting. You’re a career, it only makes sense,”   
A Career and a quarry worker were never meant to be partners. This isn’t something I was trained for. Ash continues,  
“Oh what the hell. I was a digger. All day, every day, I dug for and hauled marble so that the Capitol can have its precious, beautiful floors and tables and whatever else they so desire. Got barely enough to live on. Wonderful life, right? I guess I don’t have to ask you what you did with your time.” His words reek of bitterness and hatred. It’s time to change strategies.   
“How old are you?” I ask.  
“Eighteen,”   
“Hmm barely made the cut. I’m sixteen, which means I had two more years ahead of me to dread this. I don’t know what you were taught about us, what you thought you knew, but I hate this just as much as you do. On the outside, we look like we’re prepared to fight, but we’re no different from you, if only stronger. Besides, none of that matters any more. At least one of us is going to die anyways.” Waldorf returns as I end my speech. Ash studies me with curious, burning eyes. I wonder desperately what he’s thinking. The escort begins to preen us and I begin to ponder. Through all my training and despite everything I learned, I cannot convince myself that I will soon be a murderer.


End file.
